CHAPTER V

THE JUNGFRAU AND THE JUNGFRAUJOCH

On reading the early annals of the Alpine Club, one cannot but be struck by the outstanding popularity of snow and ice-climbs and by the standard of efficiency reached in such climbs by the pioneers. The climber of to-day has added but few to the long list of wonderful ice-climbs that stand to the credit of his forerunner in the sixties. Ice-climbing has fallen into disfavour, but immense progress has been made in rock-climbing--a deplorable but readily explicable state of affairs. Since the early days, the army of climbers has become greatly inflated and embraces many who can spend only some short two summer weeks in the mountains. It is but natural that they should take the shortest way of getting to the summit. The novice who is sound in wind and limb can do well on rocks even at his first attempt. The traces of the man who was there before him still show clearly. Little scratches tell where to look for hand- and footholds and are reassuring testimony that another has accomplished and, therefore, encouragement to emulate. The rocky way does not change from day to day and but little from year to year, and with every fresh scratch the route becomes more easy for the next climber, so powerful a stimulant to the human will is the knowledge that another has attained. Thus even the greatest rock-climb becomes in time a gymnastic feat, a trial of purely physical strength. But there is no royal road to becoming a great ice-climber. Much spade work, both practical and theoretical, and demanding time, hard work, conscientiousness and unbounded enthusiasm, has to be done. Snow, sun, wind and the eternal flow of ice obliterate all comforting tracks, and the ice-mountaineer has to choose and make his own route. Thus the true ice-climber is always a pioneer.

It is obvious that the would-be ice-climber must learn the art of cutting steps in ice or hard-frozen snow. A step can be fashioned with almost any sufficiently hard and pointed instrument. I once cut four steps with the big blade of a pocket-knife; on another occasion I made several with a sharp-pointed bit of granite. The steps were almost as good as if they had been hewn out by the orthodox weapon, the ice-axe; but in each instance the process involved a far greater expenditure of time and labour than would have been the case had I been properly equipped. The ice-axe is the best step-cutting implement known; but there are axes _and_ axes. As differ the makeshift and the inferior axe, so differ the inferior axe and the good axe. Both the makeshift and the inferior axe are spendthrifts of time and energy. When only a few occasional steps have to be cut, the consideration of a moment’s waste here and there may be negligible; but on an expedition where step-cutting is the order of the day, prodigality of humble seconds makes a mighty total that cannot be ignored. A first-class axe is a _sine quâ non_. What, then, is the criterion of a really useful axe?

It may be stated without much fear of contradiction that only the craftsman who knows how to use the implement of his craft can express a sound opinion as to the merits of any particular example of that type of implement. Strange, then, it is that nearly all climbers will take hold of an ice-axe and, wisely shaking their heads and furrowing their brows, proceed to pronounce judgment upon it, despite the fact that it is common knowledge amongst trained and experienced mountaineers, both amateur and professional, that more than ninety-nine per cent. of the climbing fraternity are ignorant, not only of the art of step-cutting, but also of many of the other important uses to which an axe may be put. It should be noted that there is all the difference in the world between cutting a few incidental steps and undertaking the lead on an expedition where step-cutting is the rule. For the vast majority the ice-axe is, in reality, an unmitigated nuisance; a thing that is always getting in the way; too cumbersome to use as a walking-stick; a collection of sharp, steely points and edges ever making painful contact with the more vulnerable portions of both his and other people’s anatomy; an immobiliser of a hand sorely needed to clutch at handholds; twenty-five francs’ worth of uselessness, and often to be renewed because of its remarkable propensity for falling down cliffs and its owner’s no less remarkable propensity for throwing it away whenever he slips; an inferior opener of tins and a mangler of the contents thereof; a poor instrument for driving in nails and no respecter of fingers. All save a small minority of climbers would be far better served by a stout, crook-handled walking-stick which can almost always be induced to perform at least the one function implied in its name.

The two most important uses to which the mountaineer expects to put his axe being to cut steps in ice or snow and to employ it as a belay when driven into either, the design of an axe should be governed largely by these two requirements. The different parts of an ice-axe are as follows:--The head consists of the pick (with the straight, curve and point), the centre-piece, the blade (which is connected to the rest of the head by the neck), and the two fingers by means of which the head is attached to the thicker end of the shaft. The other end of the shaft carries the ferrule and spike. The head of the axe should be hand-forged, and the metal must be neither so soft that it bends easily nor so hard that it is readily fractured. Measured from the middle of the centre-piece, the lengths of pick and blade should be 8 in. to 8¹⁄₂ in. and 4¹⁄₄ in. respectively. The straight of the pick should form a right angle with the axis of the shaft. If the angle is more or less than a right angle, excessive vibration of most unpleasant character is readily set up while cutting steps. The width of the cutting edge of the blade should be from 2¹⁄₄ in. to 2¹⁄₂ in. The fingers should not be less than 6¹⁄₂ in. in length, and the rivets by means of which they are attached to the shaft must not exceed three in number. As they pass right through the wood, they tend to weaken the shaft and must not, therefore, be unduly multiplied. The shaft of the axe should be made from well-seasoned, straight and fairly close-grained ash and occasionally dressed with linseed oil. For a man about six feet in height, an overall length of 33 in. to 35 in. is the most suitable. A shorter man would do well to use a shorter axe. A longer axe gets in the way more easily, is more difficult to handle, disturbs the aim and, on account of the greater vibration set up at each blow, unduly tires the hands and is liable to cause blisters. For similar reasons, the shaft should not be round in section but elliptical. A round shaft does not fit so closely into the hand and, weight for weight, is also less strong than the oval one. At the head, where the fingers are attached to the shaft, the larger diameter should be 1¹⁄₂ in., the smaller ⁷⁄₈ in., tapering at the ferrule to 1¹⁄₄ in. and ¹³⁄₁₆ in. respectively. Some climbers tack a leather ring or similar protuberance round the shaft, a few inches above the ferrule, with the object of affording a better grip and so preventing the axe from slipping through the hand when cutting steps. Apart from the fact that there is no reason why an axe should not be grasped in such a manner that it does not slip in the hand, such a contrivance is liable to cause blisters and seriously interferes with an important function of the axe, namely, the testing of snow bridges over crevasses and otherwise sounding the condition of snow. Some makers construct the ferrule and spike in one piece. Such an arrangement lacks the strength of the simple ferrule and spike made separately. The ferrule should not be too short, or it may fail to hold the spike or give sufficient protection to the shaft. The protruding portion of the spike should be 2¹⁄₂ in. to 2³⁄₄ in. long, of square section ⁹⁄₁₆ in. where it emerges from the shaft and tapering off to a rounded point. Many amateur climbers adorn the heads of their axes with slings made of leather or of some woven material, the object being to enable the owner to carry his axe by passing the sling over the wrist and thus leave the hand free for climbing. This is a dangerous practice. An axe carried in this manner is liable to get caught up in the rock and may thus lead to a serious disturbance of the climber’s balance. Furthermore, such slings must be removed when step-cutting is necessary. The proper way to carry an axe, when climbing rock where one does not wish to have a hand encumbered, is either to tuck it into the rope at one’s waist or hang it through a small loop at the back of one’s rucksack. So placed, it can be readily and without loss of time taken out when wanted and as easily put back. On very long rock-climbs, where the axe is perhaps not needed for hours on end, probably the best way to carry it is to pack it head downwards into one’s rucksack with the spike end protruding at the top.

[Illustration]

Climbing irons, also known as crampons, or ice-claws, are of the greatest assistance to those mountaineers who know how to use them. A climbing iron consists of a steel framework which can be attached to the climber’s boot by means of straps or thongs, and is provided on the under side with a number of sharp points, teeth or prongs. These should number either eight or ten, preferably the latter; four to the heel and the remainder to the sole. A badly-fitting climbing iron is worse than useless, inasmuch as it may prove a source of danger. The position of the teeth should be such that they approximately follow the contour of the sole and heel of the boot. Above all, it is essential that the front prongs should be placed well to either side of the toe and at least level with the tip of the boot, if not actually projecting. The two prongs at the back of the heel should be similarly placed. The prongs should be sharp and from 2 in. to 2¹⁄₂ in. in length, and, to obviate the necessity for frequent re-sharpening and consequent excessive shortening of the teeth, the use of the climbing irons on rock should be avoided as much as possible. When the prongs are worn down to a length of 1¹⁄₂ inches it is advisable to discard the irons altogether.

Nowadays, almost all climbers take crampons with them even on the simplest of ice excursions. Few, however, use them to the best advantage. When traversing across or climbing up a hard snow or ice slope without irons, the sole of the boot is always more or less at right angles to the slope. The edge nails on that side of the boot which is nearest the slope must do all the necessary gripping, and before the incline becomes so great that these slip, the axe must be resorted to and steps cut. Most people use climbing irons in a similar fashion, though, as a rule, the sole of the boot is kept nearer to the horizontal. In traversing an ice slope in this manner, it is true that the spikes of the crampons on the side nearest the slope will grip better than the boot nails alone would do and thus enable one to postpone the use of the axe. But in climbing vertically upwards only the two front prongs will bite into the ice, with the possible result that they may chip it away without securing reliable hold. To get the best use out of climbing irons, it is necessary to tread with the sole of the boot as far as is possible parallel to the slope. In this way all the points will be utilised. So used, sharp, long-toothed climbing irons will enable one to overcome extremely steep snow and ice slopes without the need of cutting steps. It is essential, however, that all members of the party be equally well equipped from the point of view of climbing irons and skill in using them. The inclusion of one who is deficient in either respect will make imperative the cutting of steps where it might well have been avoided. The climbing irons which Max and I had in 1909 were most defective in design. The teeth were short, barely one inch in length, and blunt, and the toe and heel prongs, instead of being level with, or projecting from, the toe and heel of the boot, came underneath. We were forced, in consequence, to cut almost as many steps as if we had had no crampons at all. They did assist, however, in that they enabled us to stand more securely in our ice steps and obviated the necessity of carefully cleaning out and making smooth the floor of each step.

At 12.30 a.m., on August 1, 1909, Max and I crept down from our sleeping bunks and stealthily, lest we should disturb the still slumbering occupants of the hut, proceeded to light the fire for breakfast and prepare for our departure. At 1.15 a.m. we were outside the hut putting on the rope and otherwise ready to move off. The night was calm. Up the snow slopes above the hut to the Mönchjoch we made our way, lighted by the fitful glare of the lantern through a black shadowland girdled by a belt of silver whence, under the brilliancy of the full moon, the grotesque séracs, like sheeted spirits, kept watch over the eternal solitudes. Our pace was good, and soon we topped the Mönchjoch and, stepping from out the shadow, crossed the head of the Ewigschneefeld. Rounding the corner of the south ridge of the Mönch, we strode through a glittering fairyland to the music of hobnailed boots crunching into the hard-frozen snow. On the Jungfrau Glacier, immediately below the Jungfraujoch, all superfluous baggage was dumped, to be picked up on the way down to the Concordia hut after the climb. We fastened on crampons, and were soon climbing up the snow slopes leading to the Rotthal Sattel, below the final bergschrund of which a brief halt was called for a scanty meal--a couple of biscuits, which should, as all climbers know, have been washed down by warm tea. We had, however, to dispense with the tea; the flask containing it eluded my grasp and, sliding down the slopes below, plunged into the black depths of a great crevasse. No loss, they say, is without its compensating gain; I had now, at any rate, less weight to carry, and snow would serve almost as well to assuage thirst. The Rotthal Sattel was swept by an icy west wind, so we raced full tilt up to the summit and arrived there on the stroke of five, just as the upper edge of the sun peeped over the horizon. For some moments we stood in wonder at the daily miracle of dawn as it skimmed from glacier to glacier, from mountain-top to mountain-top, and stirred the earth to blushing wakefulness. But all too soon we became aware of a cold wind seeking its way through our rather light clothing and noticed that our toes were beginning to lose sensation, our boots being badly fashioned with low toe-caps. Turning towards the north, we ran down over the Hochfirn at a breakneck pace, in the hope that hard exercise would chase away the chill. Along the Silbergrat and down past the Silberlücke the mad rush continued until, gasping for breath, we gained the shelter of the Silbermulde. Down the little Silberhorn fresh steps had to be cut, our old ones having vanished; and, as during this operation Max had felt the cold again, we ran across the Giessenmulde to the Schneehorn. Descending the rocks, now almost free from snow, we gained the Kühlauenen Glacier and crossed it in the direction of the huge bergschrund guarding the approach to the ice slope leading up to the Jungfraujoch. We sat down on the lower lip of the bergschrund to rest before tackling what promised to be the most arduous part of the day’s task, and also to satisfy hunger with a sparing meal of bread, chocolate and snow. Max having relieved me of my knapsack which he packed into his own, we readjusted the climbing irons, taking up all the slack in the thongs by which they were attached to our feet, and set off to discover a way across the schrund. Not until we had explored well over to the left, underneath the great séracs that flanked the left of the slope up which we intended to cut our way, did the great, overhanging upper lip of the bergschrund show a hopeful weakness in the shape of a disfiguring cleft. Notwithstanding this breach, however, a stiff struggle ensued ere the difficulty was overcome. Driving both axes to the head into the good snow of the wall of the upper lip, I clung to them with both hands and, little by little, helped by a shoulder and a push from Max, pulled myself up with all the strength of my arms to the top, where I hewed out a large, secure step in which I was able to stand safely and steadily as my brother made his way up to me. We were now, however, in the direct line of fire from the séracs above; so, cutting steps over towards the right until out of harm’s reach, we turned upwards to face the formidable slope which was to prove the hardest part of the day’s work.

[Illustration: _Cutting steps over the upper lip of a bergschrund._

_Facing page 76._ ]

At first we had only hard snow to deal with, and four or five well-directed blows with the blade of the axe were sufficient to produce a good, firm step. We mounted straight upwards, keeping to a safe middle line between the slopes on the left, which were liable to be swept by falling ice, and those on the right, furrowed and scratched by stone-falls from the north-east ridge of the Jungfrau. Many mountaineers, when cutting up ice or snow slopes, favour a zig-zag course, traversing diagonally upwards, first to one side and then to the other. Such tactics have their disadvantages. The making of such a stairway, for instance, involves the cutting of a greater number of steps, and, in addition, these steps must, in the interests of safety, be large enough to accommodate the whole foot; while those required if a vertical route is followed need afford room for only half the foot, that is, from the toe to the instep. Again, on a zig-zag course, should any member of the party slip, there is much less chance of arresting his fall, as the climbers are seldom, if ever, directly below each other. In the present case, however, we had no choice; any route save that leading straight upwards would have brought us into danger from ice on the left or from stones on the right. Already, though only about fifty feet above the bergschrund, the slope was so steep that it was necessary always to cut three to four steps ahead of that upon which one stood. But the hard, firm snow was ideal carving material. Always using the blade, two good hard blows marked out the base, and a further two, or at the most three, sufficed to break away the roof and leave a good solid step.

About one hundred and fifty feet above the schrund, conditions began to change. The snow gradually thinned out, and the pick of the axe had to be employed in finishing off the hard ice floor of each step. Eventually the snow disappeared, exposing smooth, bare ice, translucent and colourless when seen from close at hand, but faint blue-green as the glance travelled up the grim slope above. It was the real thing--an ice slope--a trial of strength to gladden heart and eye. The pick of the axe now came again into play. To economise labour and time, I cut large steps for the right foot only. These were deep enough to accommodate the four front spikes of the climbing iron, and thus afforded good support for the part of the foot below the ball of the big toe. By standing on the right foot alone, with the left knee in the small notches that served as steps for the left foot, I could work without tiring and in a well-balanced position. The ice was of the hardest. As many as thirty to forty blows went to the making of each large step, but a dozen served for the small, rough indentations into which the two front spikes of the left iron could bite as we climbed from one right foot step to the next above. Max kept close behind me; of shorter stature than I, he was kept busy hewing out here and there additional steps between my rather far apart ones. An hour went by. Away down at the bottom of the “blue precipitate stair” lay the bergschrund, but the upper end of the ice slope seemed to be as far off as ever. Then the ice steepened until it was so sheer that it was only just possible to retain one’s balance without having to make handholds. The work was really severe, and great care was needed in cutting; a single ill-aimed blow of the axe might easily have destroyed one’s equilibrium. Stones, freed from the grip of the frost by the warm rays of the sun, hurtled down past us in little avalanches from the north-east ridge of the Jungfrau, or skimmed giddily by, one by one, within half a rope’s length of us, down the glassy surface of the wall. Max, who had kept count of the steps since leaving the bergschrund, helped to mark our progress by announcing their number as each tenth one was finished. The three-hundred-and-twentieth step brought us almost level with the snow slopes of the upper surface of the hanging glacier and its séracs, and, turning towards our left, we began to traverse over towards it. A small bergschrund was the only barrier in the way. It proved a difficult little customer, and as a slip on the part of either was not to be risked, every precaution known to us was employed to cross it in safety. After making a huge step as near the upper lip as was practicable, I carved out a knob in the ice. This done, Max passed the rope behind the knob and thus belayed me securely while I clambered over the bergschrund on to the hard snows of the hanging glacier. There I cut two more large steps and, driving my axe in to the head, belayed Max’s rope over it while he made his way towards me. Then Max, in his turn, drove his axe in as far as the head and belayed me as, still cutting steps, I moved over to the less steep slopes on the left. As soon as the rope was paid out Max followed while belayed by me in the same manner. After cutting a further hundred steps or so, the angle of the slope became so much gentler that the climbing irons alone could be relied upon to bite firmly into the snow.

Difficulties were over. Thenceforward a mere walk up easy snow slopes led to the gap that lies to the right of the well-known little snow peak in the Jungfraujoch (11,398 ft.), and at 10 a.m. we gained the ridge at a point about one hundred and fifty feet higher than the true pass. Below lay a black speck in the gleaming snow of the Jungfrau Glacier. It was the little pile of belongings which we had dumped there in the early morning, and in that dump were cooking apparatus, tea, sugar, biscuits--everything to gladden the heart of the mountaineer. For the doubtlessly magnificent view from the Jungfraujoch we had no eyes. Thirst and hunger hunted us forth. A short glissade down a snow slope, a little manœuvring that brought us safely across a diminutive bergschrund, and we were floundering knee-deep through soft, sodden snow to our provision depôt. There we made our first halt worthy of the name since leaving the Bergli hut nine hours previously and, at peace with ourselves and the world in general, enjoyed a well-earned rest while the cooking apparatus produced the means of ministering to our more material requirements.

[Illustration: _Evening storm._]

[Illustration: _Morning calm._

_Facing page 80._ ]

Soon after 11 a.m. we were heading across the glacier to join the broad trail leading down from the Jungfrau towards the Concordia hut. The last lap in the journey proved to be the usual leaden finish to a golden day. The rucksacks containing our dumped belongings were unpleasantly heavy; the sun, so longed for in the chill, early hours of the morning, was now a source of discomfort, and the soft, moist snow under foot reflected a fierce glare. On nearing the Concordia Platz, that vast plain of ice, the meeting-place of four great glaciers of the Oberland, we took off the rope, having left the last of the concealed crevasses well behind. At 1.15 p.m., after boggling through innumerable puddles of icy water, we arrived on the rocky promontory on which stand the hôtel and the two Concordia huts. In all, we had been twelve hours _en route_.

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